"We did not."
"Then what did you talk about?" I ask, in strong excitement; "it must have been a very odd theme that you find such difficulty in repeating."
Still he is looking, with searching gravity, full in my face.
"Do you really wish to know?"
I cannot meet his eyes: something in me makes me quail before them. I turn mine away, but answer, stoutly:
"Yes, I do wish. Why should I have asked, if I did not?"
Still he says nothing: still I feel, though I am not looking at him, that his eyes are upon me.
"Was it—" say I, unable any longer to bear that dumb gaze, and preferring to take the bull by the horns, and rush on my fate—"was it any thing about me? has she been telling you any tales of—of—me?"
No answer! No sound but the clock, and Vick's heavy breathing, as she peacefully snores on the footstool. I cannot bear the suspense. Again I lift my eyes, and look at him. Yes, I am right! the intense anxiety—the overpowering emotion on his face tell me that I have touched the right string.
"Are there—are there—are you aware that there are any tales that she could tell of you?"